Never
by wafflewinchester
Summary: Sam wants demon blood badly. Oneshot.


He could feel it.

A burning feeling inside of him. Bubbling up from below the surface until he could barely stand it.

Sam clenched his fists and tried to concentrate on his laptop screen, glancing over at Dean. His brother was asleep on his motel bed, sprawled on his back, mouth slightly open.

"Dean," Sam whispered. No reaction. He said it louder. Dean still didn't stir, so Sam turned back to his laptop. Dean was fast asleep.

_Do it_, a little voice at the back of his mind crooned. Tempting. So, so tempting. _He's asleep. He'll never know. Just one drop_-

"No," Sam growled back, through gritted teeth. His hands were twitching and trembling now, unable to type coherent words into the search bar. Frustrated, he shut the laptop and tried to focus on the painting on the motel wall. The voice kept talking but it was louder now, getting louder and louder until it was a crescendo in Sam's head, screaming out with rage, with need.

_YOU'RE IN DENIAL_

Sam couldn't resist it. He looked at his bag, where he could almost sense the familiar glint of the metal, feel the cold flask against his hands as-

No. He couldn't. He'd promised Dean. He'd promised himself. He wouldn't give in to the temptation, he wouldn't remember the taste.

The taste. His breath hitched at thought of it. The feeling was what he desired most, though. It gave him the sensation of absolute power, of feeling _complete_. Without it, he felt wrong. _Twisted_. Wrung out. Like a smoker without cigarettes, like an alcoholic with only water to drink.

_Desperate_, the voice hissed maliciously. Sam felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead. His mouth was dry, palms clammy. His fingers were trembling more than ever as he approached the bag, but did something that surprised even himself. He zipped up the bag, turning it upside down and sliding it under his own motel bed. When it was hidden from sight, he went to stand up.

_YOU'RE ADDICTED_, the voice roared, causing Sam to curl up in agony, clapping his hands over his ears, mouth open in a silent howl of pain. The voice continued relentlessly.

_YOU CAN'T TAKE IT, CAN YOU? THE FEELING YOU'RE HAVING RIGHT NOW IS DESPERATION, SAM._

He looked up with pain-narrowed eyes at the bed, digging his fingernails into his temples to block it out. The voice didn't go away.

_YOU CAN'T LIVE WITHOUT IT. JUST ONE LITTLE SIP, THAT'S ALL_

Sam staggered to his feet, stumbling over to the bed. Dizzy and feeling sick, he dragged the bag back out and unzipped it, one hand grasping the small flask. The metal felt icy against his flushed skin, fingers shaking as he unscrewed the lid. It made a small tap as it hit the floor. Sam tilted the flask, holding one hand at the mouth of the bottle, and his breath shook as he saw the lamplight reflect off of the viscous red blood, barely able to stop himself from drinking it all this very minute.

No. He had to be patient. He had to only have a small dose, as to not rekindle the fire. The hunger inside him twisted and curled with anticipation.

The blood felt oddly warm as Sam poured a few drops onto his palm. He stared at it, seeing the way it glistened, the way it left faint red streaks on his curled fingertips. He lapped it up eagerly, leaving a red smear on his lips.

New feelings crept in on him, his skin tingling and the hairs on his neck rising. As Sam reached down to pick up the lid, a small drop fell onto his other hand, the one holding the flask. He stopped, half crouching as he looked at it.

No, he'd had his dose. That was all. He'd promised-

Suddenly he was pouring more blood onto his hand, drinking it like a dehydrated man would drink a drop of water. He managed to slouch on the floor at an angle, too absorbed to care. The bottle was lighter and his appetite was stronger, much stronger, rather than weakening. But none of this penetrated the haze over Sam's mind, the haze that made his eyelids heavy and his mouth eager for more.

He craved the burn in his throat, the dark flavor as it passed his tongue. He tipped more blood onto his hand and sucked it down, tilting his head back and resting it on the bed. Letting his hand and the flask sink to the floor, Sam finally felt sated. He reached over and screwed the lid back on before tucking the almost-empty flask into his bag, where Dean couldn't find it. Then Sam went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. His lips were stained red, the skin around his mouth smeared red. It was soon washed off by the cold tap water, all traces of blood gone from his teeth and hands too.

Sam sighed and looked up at the mirror. For a moment, he thought his eyes were different. He looked closer, squinting at his reflection …

… And he saw himself looking back through liquid black eyes. Sam gasped and recoiled, blinking rapidly. When he returned to the mirror, his eyes were normal. Slightly red, but normal.

He brushed his hair behind his ear and went back into the main room, sitting on the edge of his bed, looking down at Dean. His brother could never know.

Never.


End file.
